


askew

by lovebot (bluelions)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, food as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29200857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelions/pseuds/lovebot
Summary: Suna is starting to think Osamu doesn't understand the concept of "friends with benefits" when every night they spend together ends with a home-cooked meal. Somehow, it's beginning to tilt Suna's entire approach towards love and relationships.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 12
Kudos: 97
Collections: SunaOsa Valentine's Exchange





	askew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iritaescents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iritaescents/gifts).



> here's my sunaosa valentine's gift!
> 
> i hope you enjoy keila, it was fun to write!

Osamu’s bed is no more familiar to him than his own. The baby blue sheets, the scent of expensive soap no doubt gifted to Osamu, and his hands gripping at his damp skin are its own special brand of comfort for Suna. He is here in his arms, in his bed, several times a week just for  _ this _ .

“Close?” Osamu hums against his jawline. His palm slides up the thigh hooked over his hip, squeezing the meat of his muscle until Suna groans in response.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. The gentle tug of teeth on his skin push him closer to the edge. Suna grabs the back of Osamu’s hair and shuts his eyes with a breathy laugh. “I think your stamina’s gotten worse, Samu.”

Osamu pinches his side in annoyance. “Why can’t you say something cute like ‘it’s because you feel so  _ good _ , Samu’, huh?”

It’s so easy for sex to feel like a conversation over coffee with Suna. It should be boring, or worse,  _ unarousing _ . But this push and pull and the pleasure Osamu so easily strikes within him is exactly what Suna craves.

Suna tilts his head back with a small gasp as Osamu picks up the pace. He wasn’t lying earlier and spills as Osamu presses his face into the crook of his neck, kissing incomprehensible words into his skin. Osamu soon follows after.

They bask in their shared warmth for a minute before Osamu is pulling away to trash the condom. Suna watches him beneath hooded lids, head lolled against the pillow, waiting. Predictably, Osamu leaves for the kitchen, a shadow against a doorframe backdrop. Suna knows he’ll be a while, so he wiggles into a drier spot of bed and shuts his eyes.

The sex is good. The conversation is good. The sounds of culinary domesticity drifting into the bedroom is nice, but less good. They’re nothing more than friends with benefits who happen to enjoy each other’s company whilst clothed as well, but everything about this says otherwise. Why Osamu goes out of his way to wine and dine him  _ after _ they fuck is beyond Suna’s comprehension. Yet it nags at his mind with an increasingly harder tug. This routine begs to dig familiarity into his skin the same as Osamu’s fingers, but Suna won’t let it.

He ends up falling asleep only to be woken by Osamu and two bowls of steaming stir-fry.

“You know,” Suna starts, sitting up against the headboard, “we don’t have to eat in your bed all the time.”

Osamu glances up from his seat beside him. “You want to go out for dinner? I thought you liked my cooking.”

Suna’s eyebrows pinch together. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean I’m capable of having a meal at a table without my dick out. Or your dick out. Why do you cook naked?”

“Oh.” Osamu stalls for time by eating. “I mean you can put your clothes back on. Sometimes you do. And it’s a taboo I indulge in.”

“Seriously?”

He sighs. “I thought people liked the comfort of eating in bed.”

“I think that only pertains to breakfast.”

They eat in silence after that. Suna can’t tell what Osamu is thinking most of the time. So while Suna knows he himself is avoiding the elephant in the room, he has no clue if Osamu is even aware of it. The small smile he wears eating his own cooking is disarming, endearing if you will.

Suna, feeling brave, asks him later (once they’ve dressed and cleaned up both bedroom and kitchen) why he always cooks for him when they meet.

Osamu shrugs. “I like cooking. You like my cooking.”

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t it?”

-

Suna meets Atsumu and Komori on his own accord. He must be going insane because while individually they are tolerable, together they are a massive headache. The caffeine shooting through his veins isn’t helping, and his knee bounces rapidly beneath their table.

Atsumu is a Miya, and therefore Suna’s best option when it comes to Osamu-related problems. They share the same face, the same laugh, the same stupid habit of twining their straw wrapper around their finger into a spring and standing it up. On the other hand, Komori is the one who introduced Osamu to him, and if it weren’t for that, Suna would have fully believed Atsumu to be an only child. So Komori is everything the Miya’s are not; he makes everything about Miya Osamu a flavor to be missed, a memory receding from the tip of his tongue.

Suna concludes he is just crazy for seeing Osamu in two completely different people.

“Well, that’s not completely weird, right?” Atsumu says after Suna explains his dilemma.

“Do  _ you  _ cook for Komori everytime you have sex?”

He frowns. “Nah. We eat takeout.”

“We’re also dating,” Komori pitches in.

“So that makes it weird.” Suna sighs, picking at his salad. “Like ‘I want to date you’ weird.”

Komori steals a piece of chicken from his plate. “But do  _ you  _ want to date him?”

“Probably?” He thinks about Osamu’s random texts and how they worm around his brain until he finally responds when he’s exhausted every excuse not to. It was always  _ do you want to come over? _ in the beginning, timed perfectly between the afternoon’s setting sun and the walk back home from campus. They’ve slowly evolved into  _ let’s get coffee _ and  _ look at this dog i saw _ and  _ we should go out for your birthday _ . Suna’s mind turns to the days he thinks Osamu will take him home, place him back onto blue cotton, and kiss him stupid; those are easily the days they part ways at the train station with nothing more than a curt hug. Emotional whiplash is the only action Suna gets every other Tuesday now. “Yeah, probably.”

Atsumu and Komori share a look that Suna doesn’t like. “I dunno man, Samu’s never really had a partner like you before,” Atsumu says. “Why don’t you just ask him what he wants from you?”

“I did.” Suna did not. “He didn’t give me a straight answer.”

“Lame.”

Suna goes home afterwards to an empty apartment. He and his roommate are rarely home to actually share the space as intended, but it leaves everything pleasantly clean and tidy. It’s a stark contrast to the lived-in weight of Osamu’s place; somehow Osamu’s presence just fits in a house turned home, much more than two ever could.

There’s a digital pile of assignments waiting for Suna on his laptop, but he still chooses to collapse onto the couch. He stares at the ceiling, purpled by shadows from the street.

God, it’s always Osamu this and Osamu that. Life was fine before he started to sway Suna’s heart with home-cooked meals and charming little commentary about vegetables.

He wants Osamu without the fanfare and the longing and the subliminal messages. He’s too tired for that, too apathetic to chase after someone when he is content here in the lukewarm pool between a messy, moonlit bed and the sterile walls of his own home at 2a.m. In two day’s time he’ll be eating something good while his body aches and questions without really looking for answers -- not really, not consciously.

Satisfaction and love and sex are just categories to a plainly laid-out venn diagram.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, so he digs it out and squints at a text message from Komori.

_ hey ;) u home yet? _

Suna sends a simple  _ yeah why. _

_ sorry we weren’t much help earlier _

_ it’s fine, i wasn’t expecting much _

_ :( _

_ okay but like you never talk to us about stuff like this so i feel bad _

Leave it to Motoya to dig deeper than he should be. Suna sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, before responding  _ ok boohoo what now then. _

_ don’t boohoo me :// _

_ samu’s weird you gotta be weird back _

_ what, you want me to cook up a full course meal for him _

_ i offered to make instant ramen once and he refused _

_ lol _

_ think of something else you could just like bring to his place or smth _

_ he would like that i think _

Something to bring that Osamu would like? He’s not particularly picky about his food choices, but he’s very vocal about his standards. It’s not like Suna’s particularly good at cooking either, just enough to scrape by without having to resort to take-out every night.

He drops his phone to the ground and stifles a groan into the cushion. Thinking about this any longer is bringing on a sure headache.

_ it’ll either mean everything or nothing at all to him _

_ just think about it :) _

-

Suna glances at the clock in the corner of his screen: 5:13PM. He’s overstayed his planned time at the library, but he figures that’s better than leaving early. The week trudged on slowly, weighed down by quizzes and a fresh set of projects. His one night of pushing things to the side didn’t help with that.

Feeling satisfied for once, he starts to pack his things up and shrug his coat back on. He’s nearly out the door when his phone vibrates. Osamu had texted him a simple  _ wanna come over tonight?  _ and all of his contentedness slipped out.

He can, but does he? His plans for the night were looking like dinner alone and responding to emails, nothing particularly pressing. If he says yes he won’t have to eat leftovers for the second night in a row; if he says no a week and a half will have passed since they last saw each other.

Suna peeks out the glass doors into graying skies. He’s not bothered.

_ kinda busy tonight, sorry _

-

Osamu’s face catches him by surprise one afternoon. After almost two weeks of strategically filling his agenda with many, many things, Suna has to double-take and make sure he hasn’t begun to hallucinate.

Suna’s iced coffee slips back down its straw as he squints against the sun and watches Osamu calmly walking across campus. He’s expressionless, empty-handed save for his backpack, and without earbuds of any sort. Suna sighs. He can only imagine what strange thoughts are rattling around in that head of his.

He feels tempted to call out to him now that he’s spotted him, but no, that’s silly, he’s under no obligation to make contact with someone who-

Osamu has spotted him and begun to walk in his direction.  _ There goes all of my options _ , Suna thinks bitterly. “I was starting to think you just didn’t exist anymore,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

Suna shrugs, shakes the ice in his cup, and gestures vaguely in the library’s direction. “I exist just fine without you, thank you.”

“In suffering.”

“In suffering,” he agrees.

They fall into conversation easily, and if Suna’s being honest, he misses this. The space Suna put between them doesn’t get brought up, but he’s just now realizing that it’s detached him from more than just Osamu’s wining and dining. Osamu as an individual, the literature major who ditched culinary school and wakes up at 5AM every day, is maybe the person he’s been hesitant to confront.

Falling in bed is easy. Waiting for a goodnight kiss is not.

Osamu looks like he wants to reach out and touch him. His hands squirm in his jacket pockets, threatening to come out and rest on Suna’s shoulder when he laughs a bit too hard. Suna wouldn’t stop him.

It dawns upon him as they’re parting ways that he’s never noticed that before. He can’t remember.

Suna glances up. Thin, paper white clouds float sluggishly, painting the sky around them a much more brilliant blue than he’s ever seen before. How gentle and unfitting the bare patches of space are in comparison.

-

Atsumu stops by his apartment once. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here. No, he definitely doesn’t want to be here.

“Can I help you?” Suna asks at the doorway.

“For you,” he says, and he shoves a container of food into his chest. “From Samu.”

Suna grimaces. “Oh, thanks.”

“Cool, bye now-”

Suna grabs his arm before he can leave. Atsumu’s face is all scrunched up. “Just wait, let me put this in my own tupperware, so you can take this back.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “Are you  _ kidding  _ me? Just give it back when you’re done!”

“You fucking stay here,” Suna hisses.

He takes extra long scraping out the contents.

-

Within the next month, Suna has slowly stopped brushing Osamu off so blatantly. After that chance encounter he’s felt a shift inside of him, the way a stuck gear suddenly lurches into motion. He feels compelled to keep their text threads going and find time to chat in between their schedules. Osamu eventually stopped asking when he’s coming over; several rejections for weeks straight gave him the message clear enough. Although if he asked again now, Suna isn’t sure what he’d answer; he’s carefully sliced their time together in a fashion suited purely for himself and the turbulent thoughts lurking beneath his skin.

Atsumu has only bothered him once about his thing with Osamu, but he seemed disgusted enough to leave it at that. Komori, on the other hand, strikes up conversation at the oddest hours just to try and pry something out of him. It’s been unsuccessful.

Suna doesn’t need those two anyway. He’s perfectly capable of sorting out his own love life. Which is why he trembles before Osamu’s door, waiting for him to open up.

It took one trip to the supermarket’s fresh produce aisle for Suna to cave. With a peach in one hand and his phone in the other, he asked Osamu if he could come over, overcome by impulsiveness if he’d bothered to admit. Of course, Osamu was happy to say yes.

Now that he’s here though, he’s severely regretting his decisions. What lies beyond the first and last bites of supple fruit is an answer Suna has fought to leave uncovered. How weak of a person is he that he ended up here anyway by his volition? He blames Komori.

The door swings wide open.

“Hey,” Osamu says with a smile. If it seemed brighter than in their past encounters, Suna couldn’t be completely sure. “Finally found time for me?”

“Something like that,” Suna responds lightly. Feeling somewhat guilty, he tacks on a half-hearted, “I’m sorry.”

He takes it with everything he’s got and a warm, breathy laugh. It stirs something uncomfortable in Suna’s belly.  _ What an idiot. _

Osamu lets him in, but not without pointing out the tupperware in his hands. “I thought I was cooking.”

“No, you are.” Suna puts it in the fridge beside the orange juice. “It’s for later,” he hums, and Osamu gets the hint.

“Well, you should have told me. I already made dessert.”

Suna looks back at the fridge and sure enough, a small cheesecake for two sits on the middle shelf. He loves cheesecake. “If I told you, you would have convinced me not to,” Suna points out.

“Exactly.”

It’s not often that their nights together went like this. They rarely confine themselves to Osamu’s apartment if they have more pure intentions; this place is for sex first, food second, and everything else is for the outside world. He can tell it’s throwing Osamu off with the way he shuffles around the kitchen, casting glances back at Suna seated at the bar. He’s lucky his hands have something to be occupied with or else it’d be  _ really  _ obvious.

They keep the atmosphere light-hearted by falling back into old, interrupted conversations and new, breaking stories. Suna talks about his upcoming high-school reunion and tries not to think about the way Osamu grips his knife the way he holds Suna’s wrist.

“You cook for other people, right?” Suna blurts out in the middle of their meal.

Osamu blinks, chopsticks hovering with noodles. “Sometimes,” he says slowly. “Tsumu and Komori come over whenever they want. I bring leftover sweets to my coworkers.”

“But not like this?”

The problem is that  _ this  _ is neither here nor there. Osamu knows that. He stares dead into Suna’s eyes, unsure of how to rise to his challenge. “No,” he decides to answer, “never like this.”

That should be enough for Suna, but he stares back, unwavering yet unconvinced. His vision swims with their smiling apparitions entangled with one another. They are a couple, two lovers who left this conversation fully understanding where they begin and end. It’s not that simple, it can’t be, so Suna wishes them away and returns to the two of them sitting between noodles and sliced pork, the two of them who dodge and chase each other away.

Suna regrets coming here.

The moment of stifling awkwardness dispels once Osamu decides it’s time to clear the table. He takes it away with their bowls and glasses and unremarkable chatter. It eases him just a little.

Osamu washes the dishes while Suna stores the food away to keep him from peeking into the mystery container. Even this is mostly unfamiliar to them. If he really thinks about it, that was probably the first time he’s ever even sat at Osamu’s tiny dining table.

“-but it was actually due the next day,” Osamu rambles.

“Yeah?” Suna slips behind him at the sink, resting his chin over his shoulder. Osamu washes his dishes in such a methodical, soapy manner.

“I could’ve covered someone’s shift that night instead.”

“What, are you saving up for something?” His arms wrap around his waist, fingers curling around each side. He grazes his lips over the curve of his ear, then down his neck until Suna feels like he’s trembling inside. Osamu merely hums at the pleasant sensation.

“Not particularly. Maybe a car. Or a vacation.” He scrubs hard at a greasy plate.

“Alone?”

“You wanna come?”

“Not really,” Suna whispers, lashes fluttering against Osamu’s nape, and finally he can’t be ignored.

Osamu’s hands are still wet when they stumble into the bedroom, pulling and tugging at their clothes, leaving dark handprints on fabric. Shirts fall to the floor, and when Suna falls into blue, it feels like relief.

Their lips slam together in a messy, ammateur kiss, but it’s probably everything Suna needs right now. He needs the sloppy pace of two teenagers who discovered attraction in a fireball-esque explosion. Nothing else could possibly matter except sweet and instant pleasure.

Osamu groans as Suna’s hands find their way beneath his jeans, and Suna grins up at him. When Osamu makes an attempt to fall onto his side, Suna presses a hand against his hip, a denial. He watches with cruel satisfaction as Osamu’s face crumples, his arms trembling under the stress of keeping him from completely crushing Suna beneath him. He almost forgot he was good at this.

“Off,” he grunts, “take them off.”

Suna complies if only to shake his head and respond, “One month, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up. Whose fault d’ya think that is?”

It’s lighthearted, but it sends all sorts of implications racing through Suna’s mind. He shuts it down fast and focuses on taking Osamu apart.

He comes easily with his face buried in the pillow beside Suna’s head and his toes curled. Warm breath precedes the kisses pressed into his jawline. Suna rubs his hand down Osamu’s side a few times before he finally eases his weight down, crushing Suna into the mattress in a long line of muscle.

Suna’s own arousal presses against Osamu’s thigh, but he feels content to run his fingers across skin, tracing patterns like he used to. “You good?” he asks softly.

“M’yeah.” Osamu lifts his head to catch him in a kiss. Soft, warm, they part lingering with questions upon questions between their lips. He is surprisingly much less handsome this close up, Suna thinks, and he has to pause and consider if that’s an insulting thought. To him, Osamu just becomes less and less of the man he occasionally meets in his bedroom, and more of the guy he thinks could break gravity and skew careful diagrams.

Osamu can only be still for so long. He’s quick to roll off and onto his side and pull Suna in close. His pants come off, then his underwear, and soon his thigh is hooked over Osamu’s hip. It’s a dizzying mimicry of the last time they laid together.

His first languid stroke pulls a startled breath from Suna. Osamu definitely hasn’t forgotten how to handle Suna’s body, and with every sweep of his tough palm he stokes the heat pooling low in his belly. He can’t help the quiet moans he breathes against waiting, imperfect lips. Osamu’s tongue flicks out and licks at the corner of his mouth as if he could taste his desire. Suna finishes just as fast as Osamu did.

“One month, huh?” Osamu mocks.

Suna stares unimpressed at him and retrieves a few tissues to clean them up. His mind is still dizzy with endorphins, his skin tingling with residual sensitivity. All the nervousness he had collected has seemingly gone numb with pleasure; or he’s two seconds from bolting out the front door.

This is usually where Osamu slips away and becomes a blurry silhouette in the kitchen, but he looks expectantly up at Suna, waiting. He absently wonders if this is what he typically looks like.

“Stay,” Suna orders and escapes before he starts to regain his wits.

“But my cheesecake,” Osamu calls and goes ignored.

Suna retrieves the tupperware and opens up the pink lid. He probably didn’t need to put as much effort into this as he did, it was fruit for god’s sake. Lined up in neat rows sit cubed apples and watermelon and slices of peach and orange and mango, glistening in the dim light. It was  _ pretty _ .

When Suna returns to the bedroom Osamu is sitting up against the headboard. The jitters begin to return with every step he takes, but it’s too late; he’s done the dinner and the fucking and whatnot all for this, really.

Wordlessly, he sets the container down on the bed. Osamu stares at it for several long moments before looking back up at him. “Did you… do all this?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Suna carefully eases himself down across him.

“Like, you cut it yourself? You didn’t just buy the prepackaged fruit?”

“Samu, I’m not imcompetant, jesus.”

“No, I know! I just-” Osamu cuts himself off to pop an apple cube in his mouth.

Suna holds his breath and hopes it’s sweet. In retrospect, he should have taken the time to map out all the possible responses Osamu could give, but he didn’t think that far because he’s spent all of his energy on not thinking at all. Was now the time to give the rundown on the past month and a half? Like hey, sorry I kinda ghosted you, I thought I liked you less than I actually did, but here take this fruit I painstakingly cut up because food is the only mode of healthy communication we have. God, he’s really shaking now, isn’t he?

His fingers grasp at the sheets in an attempt to ground himself, but it doesn’t matter when Osamu quite literally launches himself across the distance to kiss Suna. It’s unlike earlier. Just as messy, yes, but it’s meaningful and suppressing laughter and  _ sweet _ .

They rock back with the force and Suna puts his hand back to steady them. He pulls away enough to stutter out a shaky, “What the hell was that?”

“Thanks, Suna,” Osamu says instead, grinning ear to ear.

Suna feels his face turning red the longer he stares at him. “Thanks? That’s it?”

“Well, yeah, should I not thank you?” He reaches back and picks a juicy peach slice to offer. Suna opens his mouth obediently and eats from his hand, sticky sweet. “Thank you for the food. Thank you for coming back.”

The tension in Suna begins to bleed out. His shoulders slump and he gazes back at Osamu’s small, content smile. This is the man who held his life in his hands until he seeped through.

“Stay over?” Osamu asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Suna responds softly.

A beat of syrupy silence, and then, “Love you.”

Suna shoves a few pieces of watermelon into Osamu’s mouth. “Oh, shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to the mods of the event, and thank you for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated <3
> 
> you can find me on twitter [@softresetter](https://twitter.com/softresetter)


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